Crowning Moment of Awesome
by MBurris
Summary: Neville, abruptly woken from a daydream, is temporarily confused about his actions. And now ... he's terrified of being who he wants to be.
1. An Unreal Enounter

Crowning Moment of Awesome

 **A/N:** This legal notice includes whatever wording is necessary to hold the author legally harmless for any and all criminal activity. Including that one time where I did that one thing. And this thing.

 **A/N:** I am reposting this story. It was posted at one time, but I pulled it, as I believe that there is something a bit off with how it developed. That has now been fixed, so … here it is.

=[O]=

Neville was a man – well, teen – with a secret. The shame burned daily within him, and as he woke up the last day of his fourth year at Hogwarts, he reviewed how he came to be such a sorry excuse for a wizard. Each and every morning, he reviewed the history in his mind. The memories gave him reason to push.

The evening back in his first year, when Hermione Granger got the drop on him and petrified him, leaving him in a closet for an entire night. The only redeeming action Neville had to his credit that evening was that he had held his bladder until the spell released him at 4:53 that next morning. (Yes, that exact time was burned in his memory. It always would be.)

At first, there was rage. Indignant posturing. But the body of a pre-pubescent boy couldn't sustain those emotions for very long, especially one that was so severely out of shape. Neville was forced to confront the truth about himself, in the privacy of his own head … and it shamed him.

Neville, even though he had magic, was a sorry excuse for a wizard. He couldn't cast spells without a great deal of effort. He couldn't brew potions – he really shouldn't be allowed near an open _flame_ , really. He couldn't fly. He was just a waste of space.

So that summer, Neville began to make an effort. He never really had, before. He demanded that his Gran obtain a waiver so he could practice magic during the summer. She refused. Neville astonished the both of them (himself moreso than her): "Lady Regent Augusta Longbottom, I am the Heir. You will obtain that exemption in the next two days for the good of your House and to satisfy your duties as Regent." Perhaps he was still flying high from winning the House Cup for Gryffindor.

Gran had pursed her lips and nodded, saying nothing in return. She presented him with a small card stating his exemption that evening.

In return, Neville practiced. Casting a spell took a great deal of effort – prime evidence that he was a near squib. In response, Neville pushed. Harder to get through that wall, harder to make the feather float, harder to make the matchstick transform. Harder to make the light shine. Every damn hour of every damn day. Neville _pushed_.

And when his magic was nearly gone, Neville still pushed. He pushed the fertilizer to the greenhouses. He pushed the horse shit out of the stalls. He pushed his legs to run and his arms to dig and his back to carry. Every damn hour of every damn day. Neville _pushed_.

Second year, Neville knew who he was – _what_ he was. He stayed out of the way and out of the spotlight and out of the common room and out of the dorms. He spent nearly the entire year in the greenhouses under the careful eye of Professor Sprout. While he learned the ways of magical plants like it was knowledge long forgotten that he already knew, he also learned speed. Muggle plants moved slowly, attacked lazily. Magical plants had attitudes like quidditch players; speed is life. Mandrake plants weren't the only threats he encountered in the hothouses. Fanged Daisys were wicked fast, and Neville had to push himself to meet them. Devil's Snare wasn't for the faint of heart or slow of reflex, either. Push again.

That year, that summer, and third year, and _that_ summer – Neville pushed. Shamed by his weakness, he threw his strength into spellcasting. Into proving, against all evidence, that he was worth something.

That his parents could be proud of him.

He was vaguely heartened that his Gran never argued with him again, but only vaguely, as she was also obviously aware that Neville had a great _need_ for practice. And at the end of his fourth year, Neville was still that kid, the one who couldn't do anything right, the one who needed a full summer vacation of hard work to catch up to where everyone else was normally.

Neville sighed. It was an expressive sigh, one that communicated his desire to be someone else. Anyone else.

Neville reconsidered, glancing over to the empty bed. Maybe not Potter. The poor bastard was still dealing with the effects of his duel with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But, hell – Potter could actually duel, the magic flowing from his wand like water … it would be nice.

As he walked to breakfast, Neville lost himself in a daydream. Being someone who could get things done. Someone who was a power in the halls of Hogwarts. Someone who didn't get laughed at. Someone who wasn't an afterthought.

Draco Malfoy made the mistake of a lifetime when he interrupted Neville's haze. "Hey, Longbottom! Now that the Dark Lord's back, do you think he'll finally finish off your parents, and put them out of their misery?" Draco followed this up with a cruel, mocking laugh – the last sound he voluntarily made for several hours.

Neville, still in the throes of his reverie, slammed Crabbe into a stone wall, and yanked Goyle so that his face met the floor. Neville kneeled on Goyle's back, reached up to grasp Draco by the throat, and pulled the blonde down for a face-to-face talk.

"Draco, I'm not a Slytherin. I don't wait for a quiet moment and then stab you in the back. I'm a _Gryffindor_. I do death …" he spat the next word, "wholesale. I'm going to kill your friends. I'm going to kill their parents. I'm going to kill your father and take your home and feed your lawn with the blood of your pets and livestock and servants." Neville became aware that his daydream was somehow now real and that he was speaking in a guttural whisper and Draco was paler than normal.

"I am _The_ Longbottom, you prick. The urge to conquer is in my _blood_. So I will destroy all that makes your life worth living, from your money to your family to your position to your friends, and I will leave you a confused, sad, worthless, mewling little prick in the ashes of all you enjoyed, and only then will I kill you, as I reveal to the world what a pathetic little worm you are."

A pause, where a small drip of liquid could be heard and a sudden acrid smell wafted between the two young men.

"So write to your father and your mother. Tell them that you made The Longbottom pay attention to you. And that I listen to the song of my blood, the song of my fathers, and that I am coming for them."

Neville abruptly stood, and threw Draco back into the wall. In a normal tone he added, "And clean yourself up. You're a mess."

 _Don't shake, don't run, don't scream. WhattindahelldidI DO?_

With supreme self-control, Neville walked into the Great Hall, and calmly (to all outward appearances) ate breakfast.

Hyper-alert, Neville saw that almost twenty minutes later, Draco walked in, flanked by a bruised Crabbe and Goyle. They sat with their backs to the rest of the Hall.

Neville boarded the Express, desperately trying to stay in character. Trying to figure out what character he needed to play. He used a herbology book to avoid conversation with the students in his compartment … whoever they were, Neville didn't know.

At five in the afternoon, standing on the platform, waiting for a sign of his Gran, Neville became aware that Draco was at his father's side, both of them watching him. _Time to play the part_.

Summoning all of his Gryffindor courage, he smiled softly, made eye contact with Narcissa Malfoy, and winked.

… _and she blushed._


	2. Forging the Blade

**A/N:** Sorry for the hiccups. I found that there might be more the Neville's growth, and was in too much of a hurry to post this. I believe that this is OK now.

Chapter 2

Neville's blood simultaneously froze and burned. How could he possibly not screw this up?

He managed to correct a stumble before it started, and kept looking across the train platform for his Gran.

 _Vulture hat. There she is._

He was distracted on the trip home, and didn't offer any conversation; as this was typical of all their travel, he hoped that Gran wouldn't see how he was trembling inside.

Possibly outside, too.

But Gran wasn't actually dead, so she confronted him after supper.

"Young Neville, you seemed very distracted as you left the train this afternoon. May I inquire as to your distress?"

Gran was a stickler for manners and protocol. What the gently phrased (but stern sounding) words meant was, "Tell me why you're upset." There was no possibility of refusing her.

He tried to find a way to phrase it so that he could conceal what had happened – but he knew that wouldn't work, so he tried to downplay it instead. "I was confronted while I was daydreaming, and I … went a bit over the top in my reactions. I'm afraid that I may have offended some significant members of society." He ducked his head a bit.

"Whom?" Gran's tone didn't waver or show any concern.

"My encounter was with … Draco Malfoy."

Gran waved it off. "Jumped-up upstarts from the Continent. Money is never an adequate substitute for class, and they are continually bent on proving it." Pause. "What worries you?"

Neville gulped. "I, um, might have … threatened his life, family, and fortune," he whispered.

Gran's ears hadn't failed in the 90 seconds they had been conversing, either.

"Then we shall need to make good on your words," she casually stated.

 _Huh?_

Neville shook his head and then repeated it out loud.

"Neville, you are focusing on your identity. You believe that you are Neville Eluf Longbottom, near squib. But there are two things you must know about identities."

Gran was speaking more informally than he had ever witnessed; this must be important. He resolved not to miss an eyeblink. Hesitantly, he said, "Yes?"

"First, your identity is easy to change."

Immediately, Neville blurted out, "I will always be a Longbottom!"

"Of course," came the unhurried reply. "But the rest of your identity can change as easily as you draw breath. Which leads into the second crucial fact."

Slowly, Neville revealed his bafflement by drawling, "Yes?"

"Your identity means nothing. The only thing that matters is what you _do_." She turned to Neville and he felt speared by her line of sight – right through the middle of his forehead. "You have declared yourself, and you will redeem your words through your actions. You will act with power, and you will act decisively."

Completely astonishing Neville, she reached out and cupped his chin in her hand. "I may have done you a disservice, because my early plan for you did not come to pass. But you have taken my error, and used it to discipline your mind and your body and your magic." She paused, and Neville could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

Her next words plunged into his heart, where he knew they would stay forever. "You are more than I hoped you would be, to be The Longbottom. Never kneel, for you are more worthy than them all."

She dropped her hand, and then said, "So tell me precisely what you said, and how he responded. We will plan your next words and deeds. You will not be made ashamed."

It was astonishing how that calmed Neville. Sheepishly, he recounted how his daydream of walking with power became mixed with Malfoy's taunting.

Gran looked off into the distance for a long while. She shook her head to clear it, and then mused, "Your father, fierce though he was, was a pale shadow of my husband, your Gramps. My husband, for who you are named, was a true throwback to our Viking forebears."

A long pause. "We thought."

She eventually went on, while Neville's head was spinning, "It is you who truly bears the fire of your line, and you will learn to forge that fire so that it is your will that reigns supreme. If you so choose."

Neville barley understood, but knew there was only one choice. "Yes, Gran!"

She shook her head. "This summer, you will come to hate me, Neville. But you will learn to act as you have spoken – you will sow the Malfoy grounds with salt, and their name will be a broken crypt to testify that you have plundered their past as well as destroyed their future."

There was a small smile on her face. "Sleep well tonight, for it will be last night you will receive until you reveal yourself as The Longbottom, the one who cannot be stopped, that cannot be broken."

The smile shocked him more than the words, but he did as he was told. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought, _That fire might have more than the Longbottom name in it_.


	3. Sowing Victory

Chapter 3

I was right – Neville did hate it.

I was wrong – Neville didn't hate _me_.

But it was close.

=[O]=

That summer, Neville pushed. Not his magic. Not his body. He pushed … his heart. To break the chains of hesitation, doubt, fear, self-consciousness. To see a future and stride toward it, on purpose, with power.

Power that Neville was rather surprised to find he had.

I had let Neville spend his mornings on his own, but his afternoons were spent dancing attendance on my social engagements; in the privacy of my own thoughts I can admit that I deliberately arranged for Neville's future, and present to be denigrated. After only one week, he began to be visibly irritated when the subject of cutting wit; after four more days, he braced me after my latest guest (Madame Marchbanks) had departed.

"I refuse to be a laughingstock within my own home. You will instruct your guests as to proper comportment," he ordered.

This was well before I had calculated that he would rebel, so I had to provide a modicum of resistance to gauge the depth of his commitment. "Your home? I believe that _I_ am the adult in residence," I responded. _A tad archly, now that I think about it_.

" _You_ are the Regent. _I_ am The Longbottom. You can be replaced – and will be, if my home is not respected." He held up his hand to forestall any response I might have offered. "You should be very aware of your position, Gran. You have the name. I have the name … and the bloodline. You will offer me all the respect that my position, and that my actions, are due. I can ask no more than that," he finished quietly. "But I _will_ have _that_."

My heart wanted to sing. At his eleventh birthday, I had thought to offer his father's wand – a wand that was well used to the flow of magic, one that would offer a subtle guidance to a young lad just beginning to tap his own power. Neville had been so desperate for a connection to the father he could only visit in his dreams, I had foolishly assumed that an affinity could be forged over time. Separating him from his father's wand – his wand – now would be a feat worthy of Merlin; his gifts ran more towards his mother's heritage, so abandoning a link to his absent father would never happen.

But now, amidst all of Neville's fears, he was demanding his own from the authority figure that had ruled since before he could remember. There _was that fire I sought!_ Yet … while I longed to capitulate and celebrate his assumption of command, I dared not. The battle must be earned, not given, lest I taint his burgeoning self-confidence and undermine his future, forever.

So I quietly murmured, "Yes, Neville," and strode to my study to attend to my now-urgent correspondence. No more need to provoke the boy – no, young man – and I was eager to see what the coming year would bring.

 _Confidence, determination, VICTORY!_

 _If only I could express my support rather than serving as an ersatz foe …_

 **A/N:** _Now_ the story's done.


End file.
